#Soft Totalitarianism

[harrycosmo]

Strictly Training Room

A spiritual sequel to Strictly Ballroom that features a Scott Hastings type character who refuses to live his life in fear, refusing to be scrutinized by a chaperone as if he is potentially dangerous. He wants to train freely with his celebrity partner and she suggests that they train out of hours. He must trust her not to complain about him. People pushing the #misconduct movement encourage his partner to make a complaint and try to convince him that he shouldn't trust her. Others try to get them disqualified. “There will be no unchaperoned celebrities!”. He also comes across video footage that shows that his fellow pros who were sacked had not acted maliciously towards their celebrity partners.

It’s funny that in instances of what Whit Stillman has called ‘soft totalitarianism’, the demand for regulations comes from celebrities and members of the public rather than from governing bodies. The movie would have to switch the characters around to reflect that new power dynamic.

[the-funtime-autocrat]

Joining in the repetition of clichés an easy way to remain in the intellectual status quo, and it represents the activity of a truly “closed mind” (using that term in its true sense, not in the sense in which it has become yet another cliché of leftists to hurl in the direction of conservatives). Once ideology takes root in a mind, the weak mind will follow the path of least resistance, seeking false comfort of an ideological cliché.

-Emina Melonic, "Against Political Cliche" (January 11th 2024).

[world-v-you-blog]

The Uses of History, 18 – France, Revolution #4, 1870-1, Part 4

(Image credit – Wikipedia) “I did not doubt that a Franco-German war must take place before the construction of a United Germany could be realized. France, the victor, would be a danger to everybody—Prussia to nobody. That is our strong point.” Otto von Bismarck, 1899-1900. Cited in Wikipedia, “Franco-Prussian War” War broke out between France and the North and South German Confederations on…

[j4unw3]

[mellowsaturns]

for you, anything

JOEL MILLER X READER

summary: joel do what he does best, smuggling and taking care of you

warnings: fluff, soft!joel, domesticity, established relationship, reader caught a cold, sick fic

wc: 900

—

After spending years and years fighting to survive a cordyceps apocalypse and tolerating a totalitarian government regime, you were no stranger to hardship. But it seemed like one thing has finally gotten to you, something that had you weak and bedridden for days now, something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but it happened—you had managed to catch a common cold.

Okay, maybe you were being a little dramatic, but the combination of a sore throat, the inability to breathe, the stuffy nose and constant chills was making you feel awful.

The door opens and on a normal day, you would’ve been alert and ready for any potential intruders but you had no energy left and besides, you knew who it was just by the creaks of the floorboard.

You peek out from the corner of your eyes and Joel was leaning against the wall at the end of your bed, looking at you in pity.

“Shut up,” you groaned, pulling the thin blanket over your head.

That garnered a small chuckle from him. “Didn’t even say anything,” he said.

“You didn’t need to,” you murmured.

Feeling the bed dip with his pressure, he pulled the cover away. “How are you feeling today?”

“Like shit,” you replied as he brought his hand up to feel your forehead. “I can feel a major headache forming,” you added with a pout.

“Poor baby,” he cooed.

You gave him a weak punch in the arm. “You dick, if you’re here to make fun of me just leave.”

He snickered for a bit, clearly enjoying this before mellowing. “Here,” he said, handing you a paper bag you didn’t even know he was holding.

Raising an eyebrow in suspicion you took a peek inside. “Joel,” you gasped, “How did you manage to get these?”

Because inside the bag were different envelopes of white pills and packets of powdered electrolytes, everything you needed to help you get through a cold—probably way past its expiration date, but still, these were highly prized. You would have had to work months just to get enough rations for these items. And Joel just handed you these…

“Are you seriously questioning my skills?”

You scoffed. “No. But you really didn’t have to get all these for me. I would have gotten better with time.” And you know that he knows it too, but he still got these things for you because he knew it would help alleviate the pain even if it was for a little bit. And no matter how much he downplays it, you know how hard it must’ve been for him to get these items. You know because you’re in this business with him.

You couldn’t help the smile that was tugging at your lips. “But… Thank you. I appreciate you doing this for me.” For always taking care of me.

He hummed and looked away, embarrassed at the gratitude you were giving him. Getting up, he headed to the living room and grabbed you a bottle of water.

“Let me,” he offered, before placing the bottle on your bedside and helping you sit straight. He popped the medicine onto your palm and you swallowed them down. And maybe it was the placebo effect but you were feeling better already—or maybe it was just the fact that Joel was here.

Sometimes, he really was the best medicine.

Suddenly, he pulled out something from his pocket. “Here.”

You frowned in confusion before a surprised expression spread all over. “Joel…” you whispered.

Turning the package in your hand, you examined its content and the slight wrinkles of the plastic. He had managed to find you a bag of those hard fruity candies that you once loved when the world wasn’t in ruins—something you had forgotten until now. Something meaningless you told him all those years ago when you first got to know each other and reminisced about the good old days.

You wanted to cry. He went through all this effort just to make your life a little easier and joyful when you know it made his life a little harder.

When you looked up at him, he gave you a shy smile. “Thought it might make you happy.”

You were beaming. And if you weren’t sick, you’d kiss him.

He started taking off his shoes when you stopped him. “Joel, I’m sick.”

He scoffed, as if you said something absurd. “Move over,” he grunted, hogging the spot next to you and getting underneath the covers.

He crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

“I kinda miss this you know,” you whispered. Because even though you were wrapped in his jacket he gave you a few days ago, in which he insisted you wear because your blanket was too thin, it just wasn’t the same.

He made a noise in agreement and minutes later, he was snoring.

It’s been three days since you caught a cold, hence, three days since you’ve been fully in his presence. It only occurred to you now that he didn’t stay away because he was scared of catching it, but that he spent all that time working and doing what he does best. All because of you—all for you.

All you could do was admire him as moonlight gently graced the features of his face.

When you got better, you’d give him that kiss he deserved.

[gremlingottoosilly]

What if the wifey of 141 and the wifey of König were super besties (like idk before the monster appear and everything was normal) and then in a metting they reconize each other (like the meme of Spiderman)

When you slutted your way through the monster uprising into a totalitarian society and now you and your bestie are together again.jpg

In this situation, I feel sorry for the monster boys. Literally, they just got their wives fixed together, and they can be left alone without a risk of them escaping...but now they are bored and constantly want to spend time with each other because, apparently, they are best of friends and it's absolutely insane and dumb, and no one wants anything to do with it...except for the girlies themselves of course. Konig tried to make you stop coming to see your friend because he is not hauling your ass all the way to 141 base, but then you started to cry and you didn't want to carry his eggs anymore, so he caved. Very manly. After only 3 weeks of constant tears.

He and the boys from 141 only find it mildly amusing when you are being very touchy with your bestie. If you're into it, they would make you make out with each other - as a remedy of not touching you in your girls time, you both will now have a girlfriend of top of having too many boyfriends...at least they won't share you with each other. It's especially true for 141 pet - poor girl is already exhausted, she doesn't need another giant to fuck her into submission, her pussy is reserved for soft kisses and dainty fingers.

[dykeulous]

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

the illusion of a loving, determined, self-controlled & providing man is just that. an illusion.

“woman” does not exist as as a “protected” underclass.

the lies they sell you about the “easy life” of tradwives are exactly that. lies.

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

if you give a man the power to feed you, you are essentially giving him the power to starve you.

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

the couples who tell you how perfect their conservative trad life is, how functional & happy they are, how easy the wife has it– are selling you misogynistic propaganda to cover up the reality of housewives, disadvantaged women; women who depend on their husband’s mercy.

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

the oppression of women is not merely tied to, “they are weak & soft and should in turn have a loving & logical man provide & protect them”. the oppression of women does not exist in a setting of a “peaceful dumb subordinate and her rational and loving head”.

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

housework is only one form of unpaid labor. women have historically engaged in more physically exhausting & dangerous labor, unpaid labor– the role of a “gentle and nurturing housewife”, despite the role/labor of motherhood, childbirth & housework also being insanely dangerous & undervalued roles; is closer to a misogynistic myth than reality.

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

marital rape is normalized. under a totalitarian marriage, a woman is not “protected” from rape. she is regularly raped by her husband. the law does not interfere since her husband has full ownership of her. to him, consent is given the second you say your wedding vows. marriage is an institution of oppression.

“woman” does not exist as a “protected” underclass.

nothing about our pain, suffering, and oppression is “protecting” us. quit using misogynistic language when trying to analyze systems of oppression.

[catfern]

LOVER

pairing: abby anderson x reader

music: rose blood - mazzy star

word count: 409

warnings: oral (r!giving), fingering, sub-ish!abby, desperate!abby

an: a short lil piece inspired by mullet!abby bc she deserves love and rest. also just wanted to let u guys know im not dead. still busy but i'll be slowly writing and answering asks and being more active in the next few days :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

her grip was totalitarian.

anchoring you in her, the pressing of her nails into the back of your neck the only thing that held you through the fog. she was everywhere.

a sorry sight. lipstick kisses pressed into her inner thighs, a gilded path smeared with her own slick. your moans a toxic buzz in her bloodstream, nose bumping against her throbbing clit like a cruel joke, she hisses, free hand running through the harshness of her hair, knowingly pushing herself under, drowning in what you’re giving her. ‘fuck, sweetness.’ 

you’re so good. gripping at her calves, resting on your knees, giving yourself to her like she wanted.

your tongue was godsent inside her, driving her writhing head into the pillow as she eased you along with her own hands, holding you down and knotting your hair with her touch.  she couldn’t keep up with you, overflowing in the electricity you ignited in her core.

‘come on, baby. that’s it.’

abby was never one to surrender control, to give herself up in such a way. but fuck. her very soul was entangled at your feet, around your fingers, your tongue, your feeling. she was at your mercy, fallen like an angel from grace. please, please, please. etchings of words you rarely hear, easing out of her like prayer.

you could see her biceps tensing in the corner of your eye, how her arms flew out into the mess of sheets, unsure and desperate, as they reach for you, and you pull away.

you tease.

she all but whines, collapsing in on herself as she falls back from the edge, looking for you through glazed eyes and trembling hands.

‘come on. come back to me, honey, please. please.’

so unlike herself. abby no longer recognises the voice in the room, the pleading mewl leaving her lips. she should writhe against this feeling of helplessness, of surrender, but she feels your heat above her, your voice like soft star light, if she even knew it,

‘kiss me.’

and you taste like her. a familiarity, like sweet syrup, lip gloss and salt. her hands find your neck in possessive rush, her thumb tracing along the bone, burying her fingers deep in the knots of your hair. closer.

‘please, honey, fuck. i need you.’ it’s barely a mumble, a soft plea against your lips. her words quiet, her grip softening, you can feel abby’s body melt against yours, her hands wandering, you almost take pity. 

poor abby.

[follows-the-bees]

I saw complaining how Ed and Stede don't treat Zheng right in the finale. And I want to walk through that journey and counter that.

First, Stede and Zheng are by themselves after escaping the cannonball. Zheng gets visibly upset, though turned away from Stede to hide her emotions, and he offers the only physical touch we see outside Ed to Zheng; tries to comfort her about what happened, her fleets getting blown up and then death of many pirates. Yes, it may be misplaced at the moment (and his words), Zheng doesn't want it, but he is offering what he has learned throughout the journey of the show: physical comfort.

Next, Zheng and Stede fight side by side on the beach. And when Stede sees Ed, Zheng tells him to go to him. They fight to get to each other and spend just enough time to get two quick kisses and about twenty words in; all together it's only about 30 seconds of time.

Ed has no idea who Zheng is, who knows if he even saw her before the moment she yells out to them again. He thought Stede was dead and was fighting the British "for Stede!" His priority is getting to tell Stede how he actually feels, that he loves him, the words barely escaping his lips before theirs even separate. This is a romantic comedy, so of course there is going to be a big declaration of love amid a near-death incident.

When Zheng calls for help, Ed asks who is that? (reminding us that he has no idea who Zheng is.) Stede explains and then together they run to go join and help Zheng.

We cut to the aftermath of the battle on the beach. The entire time the three of them are getting along, giggling and complimenting each other. What's the phrase: the best/lasting bonds are formed in battle? But anyway, no hate is shown here, only the trio getting along.

The three of them then fight to get the crew back, joking that it's pretty much a death sentence. But Spanish Jackie is a badass and already had the situation handled.

They all once again do another fuckery to escape: together. And Zheng and Auntie ask Ed (and Stede) to come with them on their hunt for Ricky. Friends may be a stretch at this point, but they are allies, appreciate each other's strengths and recognize they have a common enemy as well as journey in piracy. Zheng and Auntie sail away on the Revenge.with the rest of the crew. They are now the crew.

To counter the points I've seen about why Zheng isn't captain at the end, we gotta remember that Ed and Zheng are parallels. They are strong pirate captains who are forced into the old way of piracy: the toxicity. Both of their journeys are about being able to be their true selves, to allow their inner softness to emerge while keeping that badassness that made them the pirate captains they are. She's just lost her fleet, and I think it's perfectly in line with her journey to take a minute, something she could never do before to be among the crew, with Auntie, and he love interest(s?). Just like Ed is currently doing with Stede, taking a break from piracy and being a captain.

Zheng losing her fleet is heartbreaking, and it is supposed to be. And it's also a commentary on how Zheng's armada is just the other side of the coin of the British Empire. Her fleet is a totalitarian armada with the philosophy the old way of piracy: join us or die. It is what made Zheng a great Pirate Queen, but her journey is more than that, it's also about being a human, and as the show shows us time and time again, the traditional ways of piracy do not allow captains that humanity; it stifles it.

The end of Act || of the show is the destruction of the Golden Age of Piracy, which we see through Izzy's death, and the state of piracy and more specifically The Republic of Pirates.

I think Zheng's story is beautiful and I would have loved to see how it continued in season three.

[paperwayne]

crash.

Pairing: Spiderverse!Hobie Brown | Spider-Punk x Reader / Spiderverse!Gwen Stacy & Reader Word Count: 1,957 words Warnings: None

It is two o’clock in the morning, and you’re lying upside-down on the stony couch that’s still lopsided despite your attempts to correct it with a stack of cut-up magazines underneath the broken leg when Hobie finally comes back, grimy, sweaty, and with an equally grimy and sweaty girl in tow.

Hobie casts you a glance and raises an eyebrow, unshouldering his guitar and kicking off his shoes as you swing your legs over to sit right-side up.

“Sirens again?” he says.

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Should be used to them by now.”

“Should be used to a totalitarian regime by now,” you say.

Hobie’s mouth curls into a smirk. He turns to the girl trailing behind him and nods. “This’s Gwen. She’s crashing here for the night.”

“Hey,” says Gwen. She gives you a small smile that screams of exhaustion. “Nice to meet you …?”

You give Gwen your name and a perfunctory once-over. It’s impossible to ignore the unusual colors of her clothes, and the softness of her face looks like it’s due to more than just her age. She almost looks like a pastel painting, and against the sharp and peeling backdrop of Hobie’s bedsit, the difference in appearance is like night and day. She’s strange. Out of place.

You grin at her as Hobie takes the air mattress out from underneath his bed and starts to inflate it.

“You eaten yet, luv?” you ask over the sound of the air pump.

She blinks. “Oh. Uh, not really. But I’m not that hungry, actually –”

On cue, her stomach growls. She blushes.

You shake your head and stand up, slinging an arm around her shoulders to guide her to the kitchen.

“Rule number two of crashing at Hobie’s,” you start, throwing the fridge door open dramatically so the bottles inside knock and clink together, “don’t act like you’re a burden. You’re family here, not a guest. Cuppa?”

“Cu – oh. Tea. Sure?” Gwen takes the leftover box of curry from your outstretched hand and lingers as you go about setting up the kettle. “What’s the first rule?”

“Third rule,” you continue, smugly catching Hobie shake his head as you do so, “is reject the establishment. Fourth rule is don’t be a sellout. Fifth rule is to clean up after yourself.” You take the food back from Gwen to dump it onto a plate from the dish rack, then gesture for her to place it into the microwave. “And the first rule …”

“Yeah?”

“… is screw the rules,” Hobie finishes from his seat on the ground, “whenever they go against what you stand for.”

“And you seem the type to stand for cleaning up after yourself, yeah?” you add.

Gwen huffs out a little chuckle, and the microwave beeps behind her. You hand her a spoon after she takes the curry out, and when she scoops up a bit to taste it, her eyes widen. She hardly swallows before taking a full and proper bite.

“Holy crap. This is amazing.”

“Brought some back from Karl’s. Good friend of ours.” You lean against the counter, gaze falling on Hobie once more when he turns off the air pump and stands up, long and lanky frame unfurling to his full height. “Speaking of, I’ll catch you up on what you missed during tonight’s rehearsal.”

“Okay,” Hobie replies.

You stare at him pensively, then nod.

While he gathers some blankets and extra pillows, you make small talk with Gwen, who clears her plate and drains her cup of tea. She’s rather cagey about where she’s from, other than the obvious fact that she’s from America. More than once, she glances furtively at Hobie, as if wondering if she should say a certain thing to you or not. Makes the gears in your head turn.

You like Gwen, though. Got a good head on her shoulders. (And she’s a drummer, too. The band needs a drummer.)

Once Hobie shows her the bathroom so she can shower, you fix your full attention onto the man as he pours himself a cup of tea beside you.

“She’s in that Spider Society you joined a few months ago,” you guess.

Hobie takes a long sip. “She’s a new recruit,” he explains afterwards. “On the run from her own universe. Bad luck, innit?”

“Gwen Stacys must have bad luck in every universe.” You cross your arms and your ankles, feeling the warmth of his body as his arm brushes yours. “Ain’t much safer for her here.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were almost ready to quit the Society.”

“I was.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Was?”

Hobie rests his elbows on the counter behind him. “Gwen ought to have somebody on her side out there,” he mutters.

“And we need you on our side right here, Hobie,” you say sharply, something sour starting to bleed into your tone. “Your ‘one hundred percent’ – your words. You don’t need to play pawn in some authoritarian establishment. Neither does Gwen. She can stay here with us, can’t she?”

“Not without a watch to keep her intact.” Hobie looks at you out of the corner of his eye. “And I ain’t tellin’ her what to do, yeah?”

“I’m not saying you should, Hobie. But I –"

You clamp your mouth shut and bite your tongue before you say something you’ll regret saying and he’ll regret hearing.

“I’m – we’re not used to you not being here all the time,” you finish lamely. Both of you are equally stubborn, and you don’t want to argue over a part of Hobie’s life that you can never fully know. “I just worry, s’all.”

Hobie contemplates your words. He tilts his head back to drink the rest of his tea, and you watch his throat as he swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

After a long moment, he sighs and scratches his jaw. “I know,” he replies plainly. “I’m quitting as soon as the opportunity arises. But Gwen should have an out too if she wants it.”

You nod your agreement, though you cross your arms more tightly, feeling the sharp pang of guilt that comes with being jealous. No reason to be, you reprimand the scared and angry little kid inside your head. This is who Hobie is. He looks after people who don’t have anyone else. Like Gwen. Like you, all those years ago.

There wasn’t a time when Hobie hadn’t been in your corner. And it wasn’t until your mid-teens that you realized he might not always be there, trusting you to be strong enough to fight and protect while he goes off to rescue people from monsters bigger than yours.

Hobie had always been the more responsible one out of the two of you.

(With great power comes great responsibility.)

It takes a moment before you realize that Hobie has moved.

“Oi.” His voice is soft, and so are his hands on your shoulders as you startle at him standing before you so suddenly. His dark gaze bores into yours. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

About you. Always about you.

You take a deep breath and close your eyes. “Sleeping. Spidey blokes like you are exhausting.”

Hobie regards you carefully, because he knows you well enough to see through all your deflecting jabs. But he just chuckles and releases your shoulders to pinch your cheek gently. “Comes with the bite, treacle. Mattress is all ready. I’ll join you on it after I clean up, yeah?”

“All right.”

The door creaks open, and the two of you turn your attention onto Gwen as she shuffles back into the room. Hobie pats your cheek and heads off to shower as promised.

“Bed’s all yours for the night,” you tell Gwen, going over to sit crisscross on the air mattress while she dries her hair.

“Are you sure? I’m fine with sleeping on the mattress. Or the couch.”

“Positive.”

“Okay. Well, thank you,” Gwen replies genuinely, sitting on the bed. “Seriously. It’s”—her voice cracks almost imperceptibly—“it’s been a while since … um. Well. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Any friend of Hobie’s is a friend of mine.”

She smiles, fiddling with the towel in her lap. “You must be real close, huh?”

“I’d kill for him, honestly,” you admit. “Probably wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for Hobes.”

“For someone who says he’s not a hero, he sure does a lot of saving.”

“That’s what I tell him. Drives him batty.” You fall onto your back, arms and legs spread out. Your grin fades. You wonder if you should say it, but then you do anyway. “He’s amazing. I wish I was as strong as him, you know? Can’t keep up with him sometimes.”

The words hardly leave your mouth before you feel that Gwen’s whole body has suddenly gone very still.

“… Gwen?” You prop yourself up. “You alright?”

“Don’t compare yourself to him,” she says quietly but fiercely. “You have your own strengths.”

You blink. “Of course I do,” you reply, surprised by her abruptness, “but the fact still stands. Normal people like me tend to drag people like you and Hobie down during the action, yeah?”

“No.” Gwen leans over, and you see her face again. Her expression is tight and her eyes blaze. “I know that you’ve never been a burden to him. You’ll always be more than enough.”

“… Oh.”

Her words make you feel almost embarrassed for even having those thoughts. But it’s also touching in its own way, and impressive, and you smile at her for being so kind.

“If that’s what you truly think, Gwen Stacy, then I’ll take your word for it,” you murmur.

She bites her lip and nods, sitting back.

A few minutes later, just as Gwen finishes brushing her teeth, Hobie comes back from his shower looking like the walking dead. You roll onto your side to watch him all but drag himself over to the sink to brush his teeth as well.

Gwen studies Hobie and then looks at you, and the confusion on her face causes you to cackle.

“What you laughin’ at?” Hobie mumbles around his toothbrush, eyes half-lidded as he squints at you.

“You, bested by a hot shower.”

He grunts and spits into the sink, rinsing out his mouth.

In true Hobie-fashion, he doggedly goes through the motions of his usual nighttime routine before making his way over to the air mattress. You help him put his hair up and into his bonnet because he’s already nodding off, and only then does he collapse face first into his pillow, grumbling something about being cream-crackered.

Gwen silently turns off the bedside lamp and gets comfortable on the bed. You wrestle the blankets out from underneath Hobie and lay them over the two of you, hoping that you’re not acting as flustered as you feel.

You try to think of how he might swing his arm into your face while you sleep (he might), or how his breathing might be too loud (it isn’t). You try to think about how the blankets tend to get all twisted up when he dreams because he moves around, and how annoyed you should be when morning comes and you’re tangled up in a mass of long limbs and coiled sheets.

But right now, the blankets are perfectly in place, and underneath them, Hobie curls an arm around you and tugs you close. He mumbles something – at least, you think he does – and all you think about is how warm he is.

As Hobie’s breaths even out against your neck, slow and deep, your throat itches with words you’ll never say aloud.

So you reach up, place your hand over his, and close your eyes instead.

[feministdragon]

when you make everyone participate in an obvious lie, you demonstrate your social control over them, and you make the independent thinkers/not easily controlled people visible, attackable

so it’s about soft social control and violent social control, and participation in an imposed social reality. it’s totalitarianism

who is benefiting?

[boosoonhao]

highways: in defiance

hoshi x reader 6.7k words dystopian au sexism and totalitarian regime warning

soonyoung figures out, quite early into your marriage, that you’re a pretty impressive actress. actress is not the world he should use, really; the female form of the masculine ‘actor’. one doesn’t use feminine forms of occupations anymore. but when he looks at you, at the massive shift in your attitude once the wedding is done and over with and you’re both situated in what used to be soonyoung’s home – it is still soonyoung’s, for all intents and purposes; you’re not allowed to own property, after all, but your presence is so huge, so imposing that it feels shared nonetheless – it’s the feminine form of the word ‘actor’ that comes to mind.

he’ll grant you that; that tiny, private nod of respect. illegal and dangerous as it might be, he can’t quite help it. in retrospect, that’s probably the first sign of what the high judges would call ‘suspicious influence’.

during the pre-marriage sessions; recorded meetings in dull, grey rooms at the center of the golden circle, you had seemed like the perfect picture of the kind of woman soonyoung’s supposed to be with. agreeable, pretty, good genes. demure, but not without personality; nothing of that dead, distasteful glare that seems a genetic trait of people from the middle districts.

where you’d been reserved but susceptible during the interviews, you are now cold; eyes shimmering with visible disdain as soonyoung comes in during the quiet, soft yellow hours of the morning. there’s a layer of sweat hidden beneath his trained exterior, a smell of gasoline sticking to his fingers. he glances at the clock right above the entrance to the living room. 5.15 in the morning. he hadn’t expected you awake already, had thought he’d be able to slip inside unnoticed and wash the evidence of his illicit nightly adventures off before falling under your scrutiny.

you’re observant, he’s noticed; quick to pick up on his habits and his preferences. you make him breakfast, cook him dinners; coffee ready on the table every morning, even though he can tell that you despise it. that your fingers twitch with the want to dunk the hot liquid that you’re not allowed to drink yourself right in his face.

he wonders if you think he’s cheating; that his nightly escapades are of the sexual nature. ‘men are creatures of the flesh’, soonyoung’s father used to say. ‘if denied their right in the home, who can blame them for seeking satisfaction somewhere else?’. soonyoung thinks this was meant as a jab towards his mother, who meant that women had one job, and one job only. in any case, the idea never sat right with him. not even now, not even when you sleep fully clothed at the very edge of your shared bed.

and if you do think that’s what he’s doing; do you care? does the slight downwards pull of your lips come from the idea of him entangled with someone else during secret meetings in the night, or does it come from the disdain of the walls that surround you on every side like a lavish, pretty jail cell?

soonyoung can’t tell which option he’d prefer.

(he can’t even tell if any of them are preferable at all.)

____________________

the scariest thing about you, soonyoung finds, is how outspoken you are. he’d heard about it, of course; about the silver tongued rebels of the middle districts. he’d always questioned it; like, would they not be easy to spot, easy to pluck from the normal people and place in their proper places of gallows and cells? evidently, such a line of thought was too simple, too idealistic; here you are, right in front of him, speaking in tones that could only be described as vulgar, illegal.

this thought, soonyoung admits with reluctance, is strangely exciting.

“you smell like whisky,” you murmur when soonyoung comes home from meeting his three closest friends. drinking alcohol is frowned upon, for sure, but not illegal. not for him. still, he feels a sort of guilt tug at his spine. a magical power of yours, that; making him squirm and question everything he’s been so sure of before. you divert your gaze, stare out the window. your voice is nothing but a murmur when you open your mouth again; “must be nice.”

bitterness does not make itself scarce in your expression, nor in your tone, and soonyoung’s jaw tightens. “do you want some?”

he surprises himself by being completely serious. you twist your head back to look at him, watches as he produces a half full bottle of burning, brown liquid from the bag slung over his shoulder. looking for the signs of a test, no doubt; for any traces of challenge. you blink, surprised to find none, soonyoung supposes. he steps quickly over to the cabinet, finds two glasses there and sits himself down on the chair left of yours. you do not take your eyes off of him, not as he shifts to make himself comfortable, not as he pours the liquid into the two glasses.

the only sound in the room is that of whisky being poured, the only smell the strong stench of liquor. he’ll break this one law, he thinks, without giving it too much of a thought. you’ve already presented your cards, already complained and opposed, already made yourself vulnerable. he hopes, with a thud of his heart, that you won’t make him regret this lapse of judgement.

you hum, reach for the glass, twirl the liquid around in the clear glass. “might as well,” you relent at last. “maybe alcohol is what it takes to make this district survivable.”

soonyoung chokes on whisky.

“you’re quite bold,” he murmurs, not without reluctant admiration in his voice. “what’s to stop me from reporting you to the enforcers?”

you tilt your head, watch him with dangerous eyes. “ah,” you breathe, lean your head against the knuckles of your hand. “to the rebellious future enforcer choi seungcheol?” you tap your fingers against your cheekbone, lip curling into something not quite – but close, very close – a smile. amber liquid swirls around the glass, splashes against the rims in something that soonyoung can’t describe as anything but a show of power. “or to boo seungkwan, future brainwasher in command?”

it could be a coincidence that those are the names you choose to mention, of course, but there’s cleverness visible in the arch of your brows, and when you sit back upright in the chair, it’s with the intimidating, powerful aura of any high judge soonyoung has ever met. people used to say – at least people say that people used to say – that men went for women who reminded them of their mothers. of course, people don’t say it anymore; men do not go for women at all, they let the soulmate system choose for them. but in that moment, soonyoung thinks he understands what people used to mean.

“leverage,” you tell him, chug down the last bit of whisky in your glass, looks very little like the image of a ‘proper lady’ that soonyoung has grown up with. you put the glass down on the flat surface of the table, bring your hands up in front of your face, curl your fingers into a fist and flick your wrists in a gesture that soonyoung recognizes only because he’s done it himself countless times. “vroom vroom,” you add, as if he needs the audio to understand what you’re implying. a shiver climb soonyoung’s spine, makes his head tingle. “that’s why you’re not going to report me to the enforcers.”

he stares, throat thick with something that feels a hell of a lot like fear. it’s not something soonyoung feels particularly often, not since he lived with his parents. not since they shut down his dance studio and interrogated him for suspicions of rebellion. he hadn’t been one, then. sometimes he wonders if that was what did it. maybe he’ll ask what you think; you seem to be an expert on the subject of resistance.

“don’t look so shocked,” you murmur, tone a hair’s breadth from mockery. “you always smell like gasoline.”

____________________

“my mother wants to have us over for dinner,” he tells you, watches as you try to keep your emotions under wraps. soonyoung might not have known you for very long, might not actually know you very well at all despite your name tattooed at the top of his wrist, but he recognizes your tells, by now. a twitch at the edge of your lips, a quick, tense rise of your shoulders. to your credit, you do not break eye contact.

things have been… different, since the evening he shared his whisky with you. for one, soonyoung can’t quite help looking over his back when he leaves to ride his bike, can’t help the feeling that you’re always watching. and second, you’ve been far less hostile, though still as loud and assertive in your trash talk. he wouldn’t call it friendly, would hesitate even over ‘amicable’. but he feels it is a win, nonetheless. third, it happens again. it becomes a pattern. for weeks, soonyoung shares his whisky with you, until the bottle is empty and the distance returns.

he knows this, though; there is no mistaking the wave of absolute disgust that paints your otherwise pretty face at the mention of his mother.

he imagines what she must represent to you; a woman born in freedom, who willingly, gladly traded her — and in some small part, every other woman in palatium’s — rights away for a place in the new elite. soonyoung’s father was a nobody before; barely even worthy of living in the high district. soonyoung’s mother, on the other hand, created the soulmate method of marriages. for that, she’s allowed some small, secret perks. books, food, alcohol. clearance to the golden circle. except, soonyoung suspects, it’s not as secret as the elite might think.

“why are you staring at me?” you question at last, defiance blatant and on display in both your tone and your expression. “surely i, the subservient wife, have no say in matters like these.”

“you’re anything but subservient,” soonyoung mutters, mostly to himself. the glare you shoot him is enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand. he clears his throat. “i can make up an excuse,” he tells you; the reason he brought it up in the first place. a choice. soonyoung is starting to realize that even in his perpetual state of nodding his head and playing along, he’s taken his freedom for granted. “if you don’t want to go.”

you inhale through your nose, stare at soonyoung from your position by the kitchen counter. in truth, soonyoung had considered not even bringing the invite up, had considered just politely declining the offer and continue putting the inevitable encounter off. but then he’d remembered the bitter commentary you’d made during one of your illicit evenings of soft buzzes and heated almost-arguments; the biting comments about your lack of choices.

he kinda wishes he could have presented you with a better one.

“no,” you tell him, quieter than he expects. he never seems to quite get used to the few and far between moments where you don’t seem to get sick at the mere sight of him. “no, it’s fine,” you sigh, drag a hand through your hair, can’t seem to settle on somewhere to look. “let’s just get it over with.”

____________________

he catches you eyeing the bookcase in the hallway of his mother’s home; something that looks like a cross between envy and resignation ghosting over your features. he wouldn’t even have noticed, had he not been looking for it.

he hopes no one else notices.

“soonyoung, darling,” soonyoung mother enthuses, brings her arms around his neck to envelop him in a bone crushing hug. to the uninitiated onlooker, it must seem like a heartwarming reunion; a mother and a son together again. soonyoung knows better, though, has been on the receiving end of his mother’s overbearing affection enough times to know the truth behind it. soonyoung’s mother might not have a whole lot of power, despite her innovative ideas and her rows and rows of books, but she sure knows how to assert it.

the word for it used to be ‘matriarch’, he knows. of course, that word has disappeared into the box of forgotten things, just like ‘actress’ and ‘queen’.

“it’s good to see you again, my boy,” she goes on, pats soonyoung’s shoulders with long fingers, their nails painted red. a bold move, that, considering nail polish is supposed to be outlawed. then again, rules never seemed to work the same way for the people residing in the golden circle. “and your wife is here as well,” she says at last, notes your presence as one would make note of a new haircut, a new pair of shoes. specifically, a less favorable haircut. soonyoung clears his throat uncomfortably. you refuse to respond.

(it’s the start of a very slow, very painful dinner.)

soonyoung’s mother, despite her active role in the marriage, seems adamant in her blatant ignoring of your presence.

“how’s everything going so far?” she asks, eyes trained right on her son. soonyoung feels the need to hide, to fill his mouth with potatoes and steak and hinder himself from being able to talk.

“it’s going fine, mother,” he replies vaguely, cowers from her inquisitive glare. he glances instead to his right, where you’re picking at your own food, eyes fixed on your maltreated potato. soonyoung’s mother hums, as if that answer has something secret hidden between the words that only she understands.

“it’s been three months,” she goes on, swirls a glass of something that looks like red wine between her fingers. “can i expect grandchildren soon?”

never one for small talk, that woman.

soonyoung hears, somehow, how you stiffen in your chair, the very mention of children a sore, taboo subject between the two of you. you’ll talk, at length, about the unfairness of society and your distaste for the inner circle, but you tastefully avoid subjects that pertain to your marriage, or the expectations that come with it. a part of your newfound almost-amicable relationship, soonyoung suspects.

“only time will tell,” he murmurs, feels two sets of intimidating female gazes heavy on him. he takes a large gulp of his whisky.

she hums again. “she’s not getting any younger, you know. the true purpose of the woman is to provide the man with a child.”

soonyoung doesn’t dare looking over at you. he’s sure the expression he’d find there would be enough to make him sweat. he’s always known that his mother was a bit of an extremist, even as far as the elite goes. he knows his mother is the very definition of a true believer. somehow, these things had been much easier to ignore before. he opens his mouth – to agree? to protest? he doesn’t know – but his mother chooses that moment to address you, finally, directly.

“isn’t that right, dear?” she asks sweetly. the following silence feels sort of like a death sentence. soonyoung wants to intervene. he doesn’t.

“of course,” you reply, voice flat and submissive in a whole nother way than how he’s used to. your subservience has been a mockery, before, a sort of inside joke on soonyoung’s expense, a proof of your opposition. there’s nothing of that present now, and when he finally manages to force his gaze over to your seat, your face is deathly pale. you still have not touched your food, but you still have the distinct expression of someone with a bad taste in their mouth.

you do not speak again the rest of the night.

____________________

after the dinner at soonyoung’s mother’s, there’s a tangible, heavy silence hanging over the kwon jr. household. you won’t speak to him, not when he buys a new bottle of whisky and tries to lure you into the sitting room to join him, not when he starts dropping small hints about his adventures during the night.

not even when he wakes up extra early to try – and horribly fail at – making you breakfast do you say a word to him, though you do push him aside to try and salvage the burnt eggs stuck to the dark pan on the stove. soonyoung feels helpless, in a completely unfamiliar, overwhelming sort of way. he’s always seen himself as a pretty empathetic person, even when being empathetic was not a good thing to be. he buried it when he had to, but it was always there, tucked inside his ribcage.

he’s not sure ‘empathy’ is enough to adequately describe how he feels as he watches you flitter around the house like a ghost.

it seems to boil over inside of you, five days after the dinner. he returns from watching mingyu fight in the underground, the smell of gasoline and of cigarettes sticking to his clothing and tugging at his skin. he loosens his tie and slinks up the stairs towards the bedroom. he doesn’t expect you to be awake.

you twist your head around when he enters, look at him with the same dead sort of gaze that has been haunting him for days and days now. the familiar feeling that’s not quite empathy, that tastes an awful lot like guilt, tugs on his chest. he used to think you were very loud. maybe that’s just another one of those things he took for granted.

you rise from your side of the bed, dressed only in your pale, white nightgown, and take a few determined steps towards him. you grasp at the front of his shirt, fingers doing quick work of his top buttons. soonyoung panics at your sudden aggression, takes a rushed, clumsy step back, but you only follow, wordlessly, keep working on the buttons of his clothes.

“hold– hold on,” he stutters, tries to grasp at your hands. you only press further, until he’s backed up against the door, eyes focused on the shirt and on the skin revealed by every button you undo. “what the hell are you doing?” your head snaps up at that, gaze hard and mouth set in a thin line. soonyoung feels exposed, vulnerable, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“my job,” you reply, with a voice that sounds both eerily like your own and someone else’s entirely. you grip at the fabric of his shirt, try to pull it off of his shoulders. soonyoung’s own fly up to wrap around your elbows to stop you. “a woman’s only purpose is to provide her husband with children, and all that.”

“i don’t–” soonyoung starts, doesn’t quite know how to continue the sentence. i don’t think that. i don’t want that. somehow he doesn’t think any of the options would be particularly soothing, despite his efforts. your fingernails dig into his clothes, make crescent moons along the skin of his chest. it looks like you can’t decide whether to cry or to scream.

“do you know what happens to women who refuses to sleep with their husbands?” you ask, a sort of pathetic, fragile stuntedness to your voice. your fingers are still tightly clutched at the front of his unbuttoned shirt. they shiver; in fear or anger, soonyoung doesn’t know. “they get sent to the lower districts, branded for being ‘barren’.” soonyoung circles his hands around your wrists, tries to pull your hands away. your grip at his clothes tighten, and you stare him right in the eyes. “of course, most of the time it won’t come to that, because men have the habit of taking what they want whether the woman want it or not.”

there’s no word for it anymore, but the old one, the one that starts with an r, still echoes in the back of soonyoung’s head. he feels sick, feels the impulse to push you away from him and run away. his throat feels thick, mouth full of ashes.

“that won’t happen to you here,” he says, voice kept stable only by the conviction with which he says it. he presses his thumbs into your skin. your head is bowed; in shame or in disbelief, soonyoung can’t know. “nothing you don’t want will happen as long as i’m here.” he lets go of your wrists and they fall limply to your side. he takes hold of your face, feels ridiculously bold for doing so, guides your face up so you can see how much he means what he’s saying. somehow, he feels more honest than he’s done ever before. “i swear i’ll do anything to make you happy.”

in the old time, the time when you married someone you loved rather than someone whose genes matched your own, they used to have these beautiful ceremonies. soonyoung remembers overhearing talks about them during meetings when he was a child. something he always was especially entranced by was the concept of ‘vows’, of promises to keep and to honor. they got scrapped for something far more technical, of course, but the idea was especially appealing to soonyoung. this one will have to do, he thinks. there’s not a lot more he can promise, considering the circumstances. your eyes are wet. he finds that he wants to press his lips to your forehead.

he doesn’t. instead, he says, “i’ll sleep on the couch tonight. please get some rest.” and he leaves the room. he hears a sob through the door, and he swears something inside him cracks painfully.

and that is why he ends up in front of his mother’s bookcase once again a mere week later.

____________________

“what’s this?” you ask when he puts the book down in front of you on the table. soonyoung feels strangely disconnected to his own body; almost as if he’s standing in the corner of the room, watching himself present you with the book. people have gone to jail for less than this; people have been hanged.

but then, he participates in illegal races at night, attends betting matches in the underground once a month. he tells himself that’s why despite the rush of fear coursing through his veins, soonyoung does not hesitate once to give you the worn paperback. “it’s a book,” he replies lamely; knows it’s a mistake as soon as the words fall out of his mouth.

“obviously,” you bite back, the exclamation almost more a hiss than a word. soonyoung knows better than to talk down to you, by now, but he finds that old habits are hard to break. and you’ve been tense ever since visiting his mother, too, much easier to anger. he wonders if you still hear her words in your head when you close your eyes. the thought makes him nauseous. “what am i supposed to do with it? fold paper cranes?”

soonyoung blinks, gaze falling down to where your fingers lie curled and interlaced with each other on the surface of the table. you have pretty hands, he notice; prettier than he would have expected from the middle district. “can you?” he looks back up at your face, finds you squinting in his direction as if you’re loathe to even look at him. “i mean–” he amends, clears his throat. sits down on the chair on your left, folds his hands. he can’t quite look you in the eyes. “you want to learn to read, don’t you?”

you blink; scrunch up your nose as if in disbelief and mouth pulled down in a very distinct frown. soonyoung thinks you might be trying to play down how true his assumption is, but the light dust of red that appears at your cheekbones give you away. soonyoung feels awkward, as if his mouth is full of syrup. “i’ll teach you,” he tries, desperately needs for you to react in any way at all. when you don’t, he swallows, breathes out heavily. “if you want?”

it seems as if you’re silent for an eternity; trust still non-existent and doubt still lingering in every corner of your shared home and in every line of your face. hesitant fingers reach out to touch the front of the book, almost as if you’re afraid of breaking it. there a small twitch at the edges of your lips that might be a smile.

“thank you,” you whisper, and something in soonyoung’s chest seems to bloom.

(it becomes a routine. soonyoung points out letters, pronunciations, coaches you through the longer words and sentences. sometimes you’ll make attempts at reading entire pages out loud, eager to learn and thirsty for knowledge. sometimes he’ll read to you in bed, almost too distracted by the new sort of closeness and the way your eyes flit over the pages to even know what he’s reading.

it’s just a simple novel; a story he’d been obligated to read multiple times in school, but you eat it up, entranced by every word. one night you fall asleep with your head against his shoulder. that night, he’s supposed to meet up with seungcheol, mingyu and seungkwan for a race.

he finds that he can’t quite get himself to move.)

____________________

you’re a quick learner. much quicker than soonyoung was, much more proficient than he could ever hope to be. he tries to tell himself that the sense of pride that comes with your impressive learning curve is an innocent thing. tries to tell himself that the way he leans back and focuses fully on your voice, on the way your fingers clutch at the coarseness of paper doesn’t have anything to do with the soft tingle in the pit of his stomach.

“they work so hard to maintain this intellectual high ground over the lower regions,” you rattle on, uncaring for the fact that soonyoung can’t keep up even if he tried. probably you could make anything and everything into an hour long rant, he thinks, but not without affection. “‘the poor can’t be smart, they lack the education’, ‘women can’t be equal, can’t have any substantial thoughts; they can’t even read!’” you run a finger along the spine of the book. when soonyoung follows your finger, he notices that it’s shaking. your words sounds an awful lot like what he used to learn to be treason when he was a child; but then soonyoung is starting to realize that you commit treason with every intake of breath, every twitch of your brow.

then maybe he’s a traitor, too, for being so engulfed, so committed; for the way he hangs on to your every word as if they were holy. he’s surprisingly okay with that thought.

“but the elite are the ones keeping education away from us,” your finger stops moving, and soonyoung forces his gaze up to your face, pauses at the pinkness of your cupid’s bow, at the arch of your nose. every day, he’s finding details in your face that he wants to jot down in his journal, commit eternally to memory.

“honestly,” he murmurs. “even without the education, you’re probably ten times smarter than me.” it’s easier now, to spill sacrilege from his lips, to disregard his teachings for these secret truths between a man and his wife. sometimes he has to look over his shoulder before saying them, too scared of a housekeeper peeping or an enforcer storming the doors. it’s more worth it each time he does it; genuine smiles painted on your features as a reward for his morsels of genuiness.

you hum quietly, something dangerous flickering in your eyes. “that’s actually a pretty popular theory.”

“that women are smarter than men?” soonyoung finds the claim far less outrageous now than he would have six months ago. it’s impossible to be as staunch and sure as men are supposed to be in their own superiority, when he is so overexposed to your brilliance.

“no,” you reply with a laugh. “that i’m smarter than you. specifically.”

a joke, soonyoung registers. like the ones his father used to tell at dinners and during house parties. though, kwon sr. used to prefer the jokes about sex traitors, about women in high positions. soonyoung’s mother’s lip used to be very tight during these loud retellings. soonyoung finds that he prefers your joke; one that’s private and that puts you on a pedestal rather than pushes you down, that makes you refer to him as a friend rather than someone you’re stuck with.

he also finds that he wants to kiss you. that feeling he buries.

____________________

“soonyoung,” you murmur one night, quietly and carefully from your side of the bed. the divide has gotten smaller, for sure, but there’s still something invisible and terrible that seems to keep you sleeping with your back against him, that keeps him from daring to reach out and touch your hair while you sleep. he opens one eye, peers at you while you twist around in the bed to face him. he can barely make out your silhouette in the darkness, but he still knows exactly what you must look like.

“what is it?” he prompts when you seem to be hesitating. you exhale, and he feels the air on his face, resists the urge to shiver.

“you said–” you pause, shift slightly on the bed. he thinks you’re embarrassed, somehow. “you said you’d do anything,” you don’t finish the sentence, don’t need to. maybe the word ‘happy’ is too foreign on your tongue. soonyoung’s skin tingles. “did you mean it?”

“yes,” he replies, doesn’t even stop for a second to reconsider. truths never used to fall out of him so easily before. nothing is quite like before, he feels, with a sort of terrifying warmth at the pit of his stomach. you must be gathering up the courage to ask for something, he realizes. “is there?” he asks. “something i can do?”

silence. for one, two, three– “take me out,” you whisper, almost reluctantly; as if you have to force the request out of your mouth. “on your bike.”

soonyoung sits up, and you follow; the bed jiggling under the sudden movements. his first thought is to refuse, to protest. too daring, too dangerous, too many risks. but as his eyes adjust to the darkness and he’s able to see your face more clearly he sees the uncertain, bare expression that lingers there, and he finds that refusal is an impossibility. so instead, he whispers back, “okay. now?” watches with delight as the tension leaves your body and is replaced by relief.

“please.”

(he holds your hand as he drags you after him to the garage where soonyoung and his friend keeps their bikes, can’t help looking back every so often to remind himself how your fingers intertwined looks. something scary, something amazing sizzles underneath his skin. he knows what it is, but somehow he can’t quite remember the name.)

he doesn’t take you to the underground where the nightly fights are held, nor does he show you the streets everyone use for races. somehow, he doesn’t think that’s what you’re really interested in, even with how much you’ve probed him about it. instead, he takes you to a secluded hill, his private, secret little spot. it’s not much; nothing really is anymore, but it’s more than the house, more than the dull, brown walls you’re used to staring at.

your neck cranes backwards as you take in the sight; bends so far back that soonyoung has to instinctively put a hand at your back to make sure you don’t fall over. the stars are bright, here; twinkling and clear and alive in a way that soonyoung haven’t been able to spot anywhere else. sometimes you’ll gasp, or inhale as if you haven’t been able to breathe for months, and when you turn to thank him, the shimmer of your eyes seem to outshine every star in the night sky.

(love, he realizes, as you’re holding onto him, arms wrapped securely around his torso as you head back to the garage. the feeling is called love.)

“soonyoung,” you call after him when you’re back in the house, stopping in the middle of the hallway. soonyoung swears he’ll never get used to how his name sounds in your voice. he turns around, takes note of the uncertain look in your eyes. “i’m–” you frown, take a step towards him. for a moment, you seem to weigh your options, to ponder how to go about whatever it is you’re trying to express. an inhale, an exhale. “ah, fuck it.” and then–

then your lips are on his, his face pulled forcefully to meet yours. your fingertips claw at his face, body pressing itself against him, and for a second soonyoung thinks his brain might have exploded. you tug at his face again, urge him to either respond or pull away.

soonyoung chooses the first option. he grabs your hips, digs his fingers into the fabric of your clothes and pull at your body as if he’d die without the contact. your mouth opens, tongue slipping out to lick at his mouth, and soonyoung groans, feels the vibrations of it through his whole body. he takes a few steps, presses you against the wall, and you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. soonyoung can’t decide if the sensation is painful or pleasurable, he can’t remember his own last name. all he knows is that you rotate your hips, grinds against him in a way that makes him dizzy.

“upstairs,” you pant, and soonyoung takes the opportunity to explore your neck; bites and nibs at your skin and relishes in the reactions it gives him. your exhales are loud, shaky, and your fingers burrow into his shoulder in what seems more like a steadying action than anything else. “bed,” you add, as if you’ve forgotten how to construct proper sentences.

here, soonyoung falters. “you don’t have to–” he says, voice hoarse with something he can’t describe as anything but ‘lust’. another sin to add to the tally, he supposes. he pulls his head back, searching your face for anything to imply that you’re acting out of a sense of obligation. he finds your cheeks; reddened beyond anything he’s ever seen before. he finds your mouth; already swollen and hot pink against your skin. he finds your eyes; wild and alive and more than ever reminding him of the night full of stars.

he does not, however, see any doubt. still, he feels the need to reiterate; “i don’t expect anything.”

you laugh, at that, a breezy, easy thing that sounds almost like a symphony. you take his face between your hands, squish his cheeks and press a chaste, quick kiss to his lips.

“i know. i want to.”

and there’s something in the almost prideful way you say that, that you emphasize the word ‘want’, that makes soonyoung think he couldn’t ever deny you anything.

____________________

soonyoung stares. he leans on his arm, fingers splayed against soft linens and body cushioned by thick duvets. on the other side of the bed, you’re sleeping.

before – that is to say, before you realized that soonyoung was not your enemy, that he could even be your ally – you used to sleep with a body language so tight and rigid that soonyoung sometimes wondered if you ever actually slept at all. fully clothed in your heavy dresses and knotted corsets, arms stiff and legs curled at the very edge of the bed. it almost felt like sharing sleeping quarters with a heavy, big stone.

the sight that now greets him every morning before he has to leave to perform the mundane tasks that are expected of him, is something almost bizarrely opposite; something that makes his head spin even when he’s seen it time after time after time. your arms are stretched across the bed, reaching for the warmth of the space that soonyoung occupied mere minutes ago. sunlight puts an impossible sort of glow over your exposed skin and makes the back of soonyoung’s neck tingle. he reaches out, curls a lock of your hair around his finger.

a calculated mistake, so to speak. your eyes open. a slow, lazy action; even waking up has become a completely new, changed thing, unrecognizable in contrast to the eyes-wide-open, fully alerted way soonyoung has become accustomed to.

for a moment you just watch him, impassively; eyes barely open and fingers clutching at the white linens right by soonyoung’s thigh. you do not lean after his touch, nor away from it. this new, tentative closeness between you feels fragile at all times, and soonyoung worries, not for the first time, if he’s crossed a line.

“are you staring at me?” you ask, sleepiness tugging at your vocal chords. the sound makes soonyoung’s chest tighten with something he doesn’t quite recognize. it’s a warm, fuzzy feeling. the tip of soonyoung’s tongue tastes of the same illegal, dangerous thing that seems to surround everything involving you. soonyoung feels a surge of courage sizzling through his veins, lets his hand disappear fully into the mess of your hair. your eyes flutter close, a low rumble of a hum slipping past your lips.

“yes,” he admits, his thumb flitting along your cheekbone. your eyes open again, observe him carefully. soonyoung has known, probably ever since he started teaching you how to read, ever since you started letting your guard down and your mouth speak freely, that he is in love with you. he’d told you as much; that he’d do anything to ensure your happiness. he feels it now, though, harder and clearer than ever before in the pale sunlight and the soft glow that surrounds you both. it almost feels like peace, like freedom. “i love you.”

you inhale, raise your hand to glide along his thigh and reach for his burgunder tie. the silence feels overwhelming. and then you tug, almost forcefully enough to make soonyoung fall over you. he has to catch himself with his arms, cages you in between them, and your fingers reach, clutch at his face. he feels your breath over his mouth, and the anticipation is almost as deliriously wonderful as when your lips finally connect with his own.

the first kiss you shared, technically, was at your wedding. it was a standard procedure sort of thing; a nod back to other times where marriages were a free, voluntary thing. just the barest touch of lips against lips. you’d grimaced afterwards, and soonyoung had pretended not to noticed.

the second time– soonyoung can’t quite stop thinking about the second time. he finds that he struggles to put a name to it, to the rush of emotion and stress and confusion and relief, to the mess of it all. it had been a beginning, he now knows, though at the time he’d felt so overwhelmed that he’d thought it was an ending.

this; this lazy, casual press of lips, makes every nerve underneath soonyoung’s skin do somersaults. your arms wind around his neck, he lets himself fall against your body and against the softness of the bed, noses squished together and fingertips itching to touch. your own fingers move to ruffle his hair, to undo every attempt he’d made at making himself look presentable before leaving the house. he finds that he struggles to care.

“soonyoung,” you murmur, just a hair’s breadth away from him. he feels the vibrations of your voice through his entire body, shivers with the way his name sounds coming from your mouth. “i’m not–” here, you falter, and soonyoung’s throat feels constricted. you watch him, for a moment, fingers gliding along the skin of his face as if you’re trying to commit every line to memory. “i’m not bringing a child into this world.”

soonyoung’s breath stutters. even with the vagueness of the statement, the meaning is clear. he might have been the one to teach you how to read, but you’ve taught him how to read between the lines. hesitation twinkles in your eyes when soonyoung fails to immediately respond. he leans back in, presses his lips against yours; quickly, with an intake of breath. “i guess,” he murmurs, peppers your face with kisses. his hand clutches at the fabric of your shirt, right above your stomach.

“we have to make some changes to it, then.”

[the-funtime-autocrat]

We might then ask: when will the non-left, or that part of it that enjoys a media presence, tell us the real reason that woke celebrities are appointed to high places? Let’s stop pretending that leftist governments are just failing to find professionally competent “candidates” for cabinet posts. Clearly, they are using their appointment powers to showcase woke politics. And let’s also not pretend that I’m saying what I’m clearly not. I am not objecting to someone’s appointment on the grounds that he happens to be gay. I am objecting to the fact that someone is where he is precisely because he is a gay activist and because he uses his prominence to push the LGBT-BLM agenda. I can’t think of any other reason that Buttigieg, Kamala, Karine Jean-Pierre (Biden’s dipsy press secretary), and many of his other appointees are where they are in his administration, except as woke advertisements.

Paul Gottfried, “Mayor Pete and The Politics of Woke Advertising” (February 2nd 2023).

[world-v-you-blog]

The Uses of History, 15 – Utopian Interlude

The Uses of History, 15 – Utopian Interlude

(Image credit – Wikipedia) We humans live with the conviction that somehow, if we will it hard enough and direct our course with sufficient skill and resolution, we can some day create Utopia. We can conceive of almost endless versions of the Perfect World, the Perfect Society, of “Nowhere”, which is what the word “Utopia” actually means in Greek. Sir [Saint] Thomas More borrowed the word when…

[j4unw3]

[cultoftheswag]

I'm in a very vunerable part of my life, and funny enough , this has caused a light paranoid resurgence in my fear of being indoctornated into a cult , somehow , someday. I'm not making this post to talk about personal fears but , in combination with cotl popping off on tumblr recently, i think it's good for everyone active in a fandom space to take a step back and actually briefly educate themselves on the true horrors of what we mainstream define as a "cult" and sometimes critically examine how fandom interprets(or misnterprets) canon depictions of cult hierarchies in game.

No one has to post a clear cut, professional layed out timeline to properly potray how awful their lamb/ocs are. This is also not an indirect attack to anyone who has ever drawn fluff/shipping content (stories are multifacated and dynamic and including "soft" character interactions doesn't mean the significance of story's message is watered down/romanticized. Quite the opposite , variety makes for a more impactful story). It also no one's responsibilty to create graphic horror content . Regardless , if you are going to be using canon material to tell you own story , i think it's important for all of us to remind ourselves that , at the end of the day, this is a cult we are speaking of- a higly totalitarian group that strips people off their humanity and dignity for the personal advantage of one person/group of people.

Cotl as a game is kind of light hearted with a few gap horror elements presented through a satyrical lense so by extension i don't expect people to fully delve into hardcore, realistic potrayals of cult life. I do think though it is important to keep in mind while making headcanons , ficlets,all kinds of transformative content,etc ,if you are going to attempt to delve deeper into worldbuilding , to make sure of potraying , at least partially, that a lot of fucked up things go down in Cult of the lamb, even if you're lamb isn't as evil as they could be in the game. Sermons , strick dress codes, rituals , dancing circles , re-education- all of those things are actual tactics used by real cults/high control groups to indoctornate and take advantage of people. The devs specifically researched about real cults and their workings for inspiration for the game. Under those circumstances the lamb and the bishops will always be inherently abusive people.